wanted to hear laughter that
came from the heart and not from the mind. I do not see where I am to
be blamed. The duke suggested you to me; I believed you to be willing.
Why did you not say to me that I was not agreeable? It would have
simplified everything."

"I am sorry," she said contritely. When he spoke like this he wasn't
so unlovable.

"People say," he went on, "that I spend most of my time in my
wine-cellars. Well,"--defiantly,--"what else is there for me to do? I
am alone." Max came within his range of vision. "Take him away, I
tell you!"

And the colonel hustled Max into the library.

"Don't try the window," he warned, but with rather a pleasant smile.
He was only two or three years older than Max. "If you do, you'll
break your neck."

"I promise not to try," replied Max. "My neck will serve me many years
yet."

"It will not if you have the habit of running away with persons above
you in quality. Actions like that are not permissible in Europe." The
colonel spoke rather grimly, for all his smile.

The door slammed, there was a grinding of the key in the lock, and Max
was alone.

The library at Doppelkinn was all the name implied. The cases were low
and ran around the room, and were filled with romance, history,
biography, and even poetry. The great circular reading-table was
littered with new books, periodicals and illustrated weeklies. Once
Doppelkinn had been threatened with a literary turn of mind, but a bad
vintage coming along at the same time had effected a permanent cure.

Max slid into a chair and took up a paper, turning the pages at
random.--What was the matter with the room? Certainly it was not
close, nor damp, nor chill. What was it? He let the paper fall to the
floor, and his eyes roved from one object to another.--Where had he
seen that Chinese mask before, and that great silver-faced clock?
Somehow, mysterious and strange as it seemed, all this was vaguely
familiar to him. Doubtless he had seen a picture of the room
somewhere. He rose and wandered about.

In one corner of the bookshelves stood a pile of boy's books and some
broken toys with the dust of ages upon them. He picked up a row of
painted soldiers, and balanced them thoughtfully on his hand. Then he
looked into one of the picture-books. It was a Santa Claus story; some
of the pictures were torn and some stuck together, a reminder of
sticky, candied hands. He gently replaced the book and the toys